


Blackbird

by linzeestyle



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Jackalopes & Woozles Steal Honey, M/M, Mating Bites, Mating Bond, Possessive Castiel, Season/Series 13, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-09
Updated: 2018-12-09
Packaged: 2019-09-14 14:49:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16914906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/linzeestyle/pseuds/linzeestyle
Summary: You’re probably thinking of that Herrick bunny outta the 1930s. That thing was all wrong though. One of our ranchers shot this guy three weeks ago, chasing his sheep. Amazing, isn’t it?





	Blackbird

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bonibaru](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bonibaru/gifts).



> First posted briefly a year ago, re-posting now after a year off of fanworks.

Dean doesn’t bring it up when Castiel comes back.

There’s too much going on at once: he doesn’t think to, really. It’s a part of him now, like the hollow ache of loss in his chest, settled beneath his skin and etched into him permanently. Having Cas back makes it--better, Christ he’s grateful he’s so fucking thankful he is--but it doesn’t erase the months without him. It doesn’t make Dean forget what he felt like, slogging forward, soaked in alcohol and still barely floating.

He doesn’t think to mention the tattoo at all until he comes out of his bedroom one morning a few weeks later, scratching his arm idly and looking for coffee. Castiel hands him a mug and he grunts a sleepy thank you, fumbling to find a chair nearby.

“What is that?” Castiel is staring at him when he sits down.

“Hngnh?” The sound Dean makes is muffled by his coffee; he needs caffeine more than he needs answers, so he finishes half his cup before he puts it down, and repeats himself. “Huh?”

“On your arm. Beneath your sleeve. What is that.” Without asking permission Castiel reaches out, grabbing Dean’s elbow and holding him still long enough to pull his shirt up -- revealing his bicep and the tattoo over the meat of it, a blackbird with outstretched wings.

“Dude. Handsy.” However asleep he was before, Dean’s awake as hell now.

“This is new,” he notes, stating the obvious. “When did you get this done?”

Self-conscious, Dean pulls the arm of his shirt back down, rolling the sleeve over the bottom of the image. “Me and Sammy took Jack to get warded while you were... We uh, dropped by a place, I saw something, I thought.” He shrugs. “Forget it.”

“Dean.” Still watching him intently, Castiel seems bothered, as though he has something more to say but can’t find the words. Dean isn’t ready for him to stumble over them though, so he waves him off, standing to find more caffeine.

“S’okay Cas, I said forget it. Hey, where’s Sam? Is he awake yet? We’ve got that case out in Wyoming, remember, the wererabbits?”

“Jackalopes,” Castiel corrects him. He’s still eyeing Dean’s shoulder, but he seems content to let the conversation go, for now. “I believe Sam went on a run. He told me to ensure you were awake and caffeinated before he returned, I think his term was, ‘ wake the yeti?’ ”

“Yeah, says Bigfoot.” Dean brings the whole coffee pot with him back to the table. “Okay, so what have you got to tell me about jackalopes?”

*

The answer to Dean’s question about jackalopes, it turns out, is plenty. Too much, in fact, and Castiel is still dropping the occasional fun fact ( _chimeras_ , actually, and especially regional) when they stop just outside of Casper for the night, Dean following him out of the car with a hand on his lower back to guide him into the lone, double-wide diner sprawled out along the freeway exit.

Above them a hand-painted sign reads, TIME FOR PIE, and Dean doesn’t need more advisement than that.

Inside, everything smells like old grease and cracked linoleum, the kind of building that doubled as Dean’s childhood kitchen. He lets Castiel choose a booth and slides in beside him, deliberately ensuring he’s as far from the kid as possible: Jack scoots across to the opposite end of the table, eyes fixed on the counter, and Sam sits down beside him, glaring at Dean.

“Dude, seriously.” He stares.

“What? I didn’t say anything.” Dean grabs the menu. “Oh hey look, burgers.” Nudging Castiel with his shoulder, he points him in the general direction of the laminated paper. “You hungry?” 

“No.” Castiel turns his attention to Jack. “Jack, can I get you anything?”

Like Cas is going to be footing the bill for any of it. Dean can’t help but roll his eyes, leaning back against the booth. It crinkles against his skin, sticky and unpleasant; in front of him Sam glares, equally sticky and unpleasant.

Across the table, Jack looks down at the menu and frowns. “I don’t...know. Do you think they have peanut butter and jelly here?”

Castiel looks like he’s been handed the sun. “We can ask, yes.” He turns to Dean. “Dean, do you think they have--”

Dean knows when he’s beat. Sighing, he sits up a little, looking for a waiter. “Yeah I think they can make a damn pb&j.” On cue, a middle-aged woman in a hairnet and name tag comes up, pencil tapping out an impatient morse-code against a thin, lined notepad.

“Do you know what you want, yet?” It’s been approximately a minute thirty since they got here; this is the reason Dean likes these sort of cranky, rusty spoons.

“Uh, yeah--” He glances at her nametag “--Sharon, I’d like a cheeseburger and a coke. My...friend here wants a coffee with cream and sugar, my brother wants a grilled chicken sandwich and an iced tea, and the kid over there wants a pb&j and a milkshake, please.” He smiles at her, doing his best for flirtatious and probably missing by a mile. Still, she offers a polite smile back and asks Jack if he wants a cherry on top, which is probably the best they’re getting at eleven-thirty in asswipe county.

Their motel is across the parking lot and it takes only a brief argument to convince Castiel that Jack should stay with Sam, tonight: Castiel still feels responsible for the kid, a weird paternal connection to Jack like he really was Cas’s son, except he isn’t and it doesn’t work that way, Dean’s run out of ways of reminding him. Instead he plies Jack and Sam both with a shopping bag of discount candy from the liquor store across the street, and hustles Cas back to the other room before he changes his mind.

Dean’s fully expecting another round of worries about the kid once the door is shut, so it’s a surprise to turn around and find Castiel sprawled out across the bed nearest to the door, face-down: he’s lost his trench coat to the floor, pooled near the bed, and his tie is in his hand.

“Hey, Cas?”

He grumbles and rolls to look at Dean with lidded eyes. “You didn’t say you were tired.”

“I didn’t--” He yawns. “Realize I was.” A smile catches and holds on the corner of his mouth. “Some of my body’s responses are different than before, I suppose you might say I’m adjusting.” He turns onto his back and sits up, wincing with effort. “I should’ve asked what bed you wanted.”

Dean shrugs off his flannel shirt, grabs up Castiel’s jacket while he’s at it and throws them both across the nearby desk chair. “Doesn’t matter. Guess that one’s yours.” His jeans go next, kicked off in the vague direction of his duffel; he reaches for his shirt, throwing it on top of the pile. It’s a lot more naked than he usually gets, but they don’t have a meeting with the local PD until 11 tomorrow morning; no reason they can’t sleep past the damn sun, for once. He pulls back the covers on his own bleached-out bed, sitting down on the mattress and bouncing, lightly. It isn’t memory-foam, but it’s better than the back seat.

It isn’t until he reaches over to hit the lights that he realizes Cas is staring at him.

“What?”

Castiel blinks, eyes still fixed on him. Or, part of him specifically. Dean follows his stare down to his own shoulder, the tattoo half-hidden by the room’s heavy shadow.

“You know if you wanna look at it you can just say something.” Dean twists to give Cas a better view, trying not to be self-conscious. He hasn’t said anything, not out loud. Sam never asked him, just took in the bite of his jaw and the taped-down bandage on his arm and quietly paid for Jack’s new sigils and left Dean to his business. It’s hard even now to sit still and let Castiel look it over, careful fingers tracing its outline.

“I don’t understand,” says Castiel finally. He slides his entire palm over the width of the bird, hiding it completely. Dean shivers when it sparks something beneath his skin, low and prickling.

“It’s, um.” He swallows, doing his best to stay focused. Words, sentences. They fit together, somehow. “It’s a blackbird. The--Beatles song. Mom used to like it, too, it uh.”

Castiel is far too close to him, now, knees knocking against Dean’s in the space between their beds. It has him hyper-aware of the angel, warm and solid and alive in front of him. His dick twitches and it’s like having cold water splashed over his head: Castiel is here with him, again, and there’s more than one way Dean can fuck that up. He coughs. "It's stupid."

“No it isn’t.” Castiel frowns, hand still pressed tight along the design. “It’s beautiful, Dean. Thank you for sharing it with me.”

Dean rolls his eyes, self-conscious at the attention. When Cas lets go he swears his shoulder tingles.

“Yeah, uh. Look, we should both get some sleep, long day tomorrow, right?” He nods out the window. Castiel watches him with curious eyes but nods in low agreement. “You wanna hit the lights or something?”

Nodding, Castiel reaches for the desk lamp, and then hesitates. “Actually, I’d prefer to leave it on if you don’t mind. I’ve had enough of the dark for a while.”

His expression is stony as ever but there’s something big and glassy in his eyes, and Dean nods and lies back. “G’night, Cas.”

“Goodnight, Dean.” Castiel turns away from Dean, but without the cover of darkness, it’s easy to tell his breathing never changes.

In fairness, Dean finds sleep hard to come by, too. He closes his eyes and sees a whole lot of empty space.

***

“Okay, so tell me more about wererabbits.”

Dean hands Castiel a cup of coffee the next morning as soon as he’s gotten out of the shower: it’s easier than dealing with him in a decaffeinated state.

“Jackalopes,” Castiel corrects again, sniffing the coffee suspiciously. It has enough sugar in it to kill a diabetic, so it has to be sweet enough for him: still, he takes his time tasting it, flicking at it with little kitten licks until Dean wants to reach across the space between them and--

He swallows, cutting himself off before he can take that thought any farther. Nothing. What he really wants to do is get back on the road. A quick text conversation with Sam a half-hour ago confirmed that Jackie-boy didn’t go postal in the night, at least. He did, apparently, break a faucet and a light bulb, but hell, they paid in cash. Cas has got to get this kid’s ragers under control.

“Right.” Dean finishes packing their dirty clothes and hauls ass out of the room, Castiel following after him. “Jackalopes, whatever. They’re a fake: some guy made one out of a couple of dead animals in the 30s.”

“The Herrick specimen was a poor imitation. Jackalopes are more closely related to the sand-cat or capybara, their native habitat is far closer to the Sonoran Desert than the North American midlands.” He sips on his coffee thoughtfully. “They’re average-sized animals, perhaps the weight and heft of a wombat or a javelina.”

“Yeah that’s...helpful.”

“A dog,” Castiel corrects. “A large, fat dog.”

“So three people got taken out by a big, fat dog. Awesome.” Dean loves this case already. Why are they in Wyoming? This feels like the kind of thing Claire would have loved . Maybe she and Alex want a wererabbit. Kids should have pets, right?

Dean’s exhausted thoughts are spun out when he nearly runs into Sam, coming around motel corner with a handful of tiny, packaged pastries. “ Mmm!,” he exclaims, around a mouthful of blueberry muffin.

“Dude, where’d those come from?” Dean knows he’s staring but he doesn’t really care.

Swallowing, Sam repeats himself with more success. “234, continental breakfast til ten. Jack’s in there with the waffle maker.”

“Great. He’s going to blow the whole place sky-high.” Dean swears and jogs the rest of the way to the breakfast room, but the only thing he finds when he gets there is Jack and an enormous pile of admittedly poorly-made waffles, covered in butter and packets of jelly.

“I like these,” he announces to Castiel, when he comes in behind Dean.

“I’ve heard they’re good,” Cas agrees, sitting next to him. “You should try them with syrup next time.”

Dean grabs a handful of granola bars and shoves them into his pockets before moving to the muffins. He’s ready to go when he hears Castiel call his name, and turns around in exasperation.

“Dean, come over here. Sam said he’d meet us.”

Gritting his teeth, Dean pulls up a fourth chair for the express purpose of sitting as far from Jack as possible. It would be more satisfying if Jack had noticed: he’s too excited by stale breakfast cereal.

“Must be nice being that easily impressed,” Dean grouses.

“He’s technically an infant, you were likely intrigued by your own genitals.” Castiel shoots a bland look in his direction. “Has that changed?”

Dean doesn’t have the energy to tell Castiel to fuck himself. Fortunately Sam’s already here, grabbing a boiled egg out of the rattling cooler, and Dean takes the opportunity to leave both the table and the Satan-spawn for his car’s familiarity. He’s sitting in the front seat, key in the ignition when Castiel joins him, sliding into the passenger’s side and buckling in.

“Where’s Sam?”

“Helping Jack finish his breakfast. His eyes are already bigger than his stomach.”

“Ah, yeah. Probably picked that up somewhere.” Dean coughs, trying not to think about the number of times he’s looked over to find Jack staring at him intently over dinner, mimicking Dean’s actions with uncomfortable clarity. “Weird kid.”

“You don’t like him,” Castiel surmises.

“Cas, I’m trying.” Maybe not as hard as he should be, but he is: Dean hasn’t tried to kill Jack in almost a month.

“I know you are.” Castiel reaches over him, squeezing his shoulder. It’s his left shoulder, the one with the tattoo over the bicep, and Dean doesn’t miss that part: he can’t miss it, because Castiel slides his hand beneath the sleeve of his shirt, palm gliding flat across his skin and pressing down with that same, low burn.

Dean looks away.

Eventually Cas pulls the shirt back down and smooths the fabric. As he does, Dean notices Sam and Jack coming around the corner and lays on the horn, startling Castiel back onto his side of the seat bench. His hands clasp politely in his lap and he waits for Jack to clamber into the back seat before he says anything else.

“Okay,” Dean announces as soon as Sam’s got his door open. “Let’s get this show on the road.”

*

The road, it turns out, is barely a side street: a single, dirt lane that leads them to the courthouse- slash-sheriff’s office of Barr Nunn, Wyoming, a town with a population of approximately 1,000 people and at least twice as many livestock. Jack watches with his nose pressed to the window pane as they pass tiny shops with faded Americana walk-ups, creaking chairs with creaking salespeople waiting for the usual customers.

The long, black car curling through the countryside likely sticks out with all the grace of a hearse, but Dean is used to causing a stir.

At the courthouse, a bone-dry crackling brick and mortar building, the sheriff introduces himself as Walker Davis and shakes Sam and Dean’s hands with his own great big callused ones. He insists on taking “ the agents” on a tour of the grounds, waving meaty arms at absurdist murals and displays of stuffed raccoons. He gestures to a roped-off glass case and hits Sam on the back, hard enough to make him grunt.

“Sorry gentlemen,” Sheriff Davis offers amiably, somewhere in what looks to be storage. “I’m afraid I don’t get a lot of chances to show people around out here. It’s a pretty small town, as you can probably tell.” He’s clearly getting around to something and Dean wishes he’d get on with it: they left Castiel and Jack in the car, and while he trusts Castiel with his baby, more or less, he doesn’t trust little Damien alone with Cas. He’s been on-edge since they left the parking lot, fingertips worrying the phone in his pocket so often Sam has started slapping his hand away.

Finally, the sheriff reaches a box: THIS END UP. It’s recently opened. Great, Dean thinks. This always goes well.

“Now that one, that’s a new acquisition we’re especially proud of. A real, live--uh, well, a real- dead jackalope, right outta Barr Nunn.”

Sam and Dean look at each other, then at the case.

It’s...big, Dean has to give it that. He’s seen the Herrick hoax and most fakes are like it: rabbit- sized, David Coulier bullshit, the sort of thing you buy pictures of at gift shops in Yellowstone or driving around the Grand Canyon. The diorama they’re looking at goes as high as Dean’s hips, plastic fauna surrounding a vaguely rabbit-shaped thing the size of, well, a good-sized german shepherd, Dean guesses. A really round , good-sized german shepherd. Freaking Cas.

“That thing’s huge.” Sam points out the obvious. “Aren’t jackalope supposed to be pretty...rabbit-sized?”

“You’d think so, right?” Their new buddy ‘Walker’ perks up. “You’re probably thinking of that Herrick bunny outta the 1930s. That thing was all wrong though. One of our ranchers shot this guy three weeks ago, chasing his sheep. Amazing, isn’t it?”

From the side, it’s far clearer: the thing’s got the coat of some kind of snow rabbit, with fangs that protrude over its lower lip. “Carnivore,” he mouths at Sam, and Sam makes a face back at him; Dean leans in to look at the antlers, seemingly made of something harder, tighter-packed than antelope horn.

“Is that ivory?” Dean reaches into his jacket for a pen light.

“We haven’t had anything tested.” Sheriff Davis leans forward, too. “It’s harder than bone, I’ll tell you that: went right through the side of Edgar’s farmhouse. Thing was crazier than a shit- house rat. But hell, think of the tourism.”

“Yeah, well, ain’t gonna be many tourists if you don’t take care of whatever’s eating your townsfolk, Warren.” Dean straightens, turning off the flashlight and staring the sheriff down. He’s seen this type before: first whiff of the supernatural and they see dollar signs and tourist

traps, forget about the blood and the screaming. “You got a body to show us?”

Sheriff Davis hesitates, looking from Dean to Sam and back again with an uncertain expression. “Well...alright. You two boys come downstairs to the morgue.”

“Excuse--I’m sorry, downstairs?” They’re both thinking it, but Sam gets their first.

The sheriff just hits the elevator button though, giving them a look that says ‘what can you do.’ “Well, I told you it’s a small town.”

*  
A very small town, apparently.

The victim in question is one Jim Wallace, the brother-in-law and next door neighbor of rancher Edgar Deems, he of the inconveniently delicious sheep and the conveniently dead-eyed shot. Mr. Wallace lived three and a half miles from the Deems Ranch, in a trailer on two acres of land across a patch of marshy pond. His body was found sucked halfway into the water, skin already bloated and purpling when they found him.

“This guy got mauled by a jackalope?”

 Sam scowls at his brother. “ Dean. It’s not funny.” He looks like he’s biting his tongue though, Dean knows that kid. Cas, on the other hand, looks genuinely unimpressed by them both.

“It really isn’t. Imagine being gored by a wild boar, with antlers.” A flick of Castiel’s wrist pulls down the sheet and Dean winces, taking in the extent of the injuries. Cas is right, at any rate: it isn’t funny. There’s a hole in this guy’s insides, like something took out a big chunk of his torso, tearing out his intestines, his liver and kidneys, and a good cut of his spine. He must have been dead before he hit the water, gummy eyes still wide with shock from the impact. Dean fights nausea as it crawls through his stomach.

“So he’s related to the rancher?” Sam grabs up the clipboard hanging from the morgue table.

“Brother in law, yeah.” Dean coughs to clear his throat. “Wife died last year. Best guess, neighbor says they’ve been having some problems with black bears getting into the compost.”

“A bear couldn’t do this.” Castiel pulls the sheet back up and Dean exhales, body untensing. “There’s a second chimera.”

“A jackalope.” Dean’s still having a lot of trouble with the basic premise here, that they’re dealing with a killer, horned rabbit. “You’re saying a jackalope tore this guy into pieces.”

“A regional chimera: a large mammalian carnivore with pronged, horned protrusions.” Castiel narrows his eyes as if Dean has gone dense on him. “I’m unclear on your confusion.”

“It’s just...” Dean frowns, trying to explain himself. “It’s a rabbit.” He looks back over at the body. “So how did this guy die?”

The sound of rustling papers fills the room: Sam flips the report back to the front page. “Blood loss and asphyxiation; two puncture wounds and multiple lacerations to the jugular.” Sam looks down at the sheet-clad body with some hesitation. “His throat was ripped out.”

“Eesh.” Dean considers taking another look, but only briefly. “Freaking awesome. So Bugs Bunny got the jump on this guy.”

“Seventy-eight, heart failure, two-pack a day smoker...I mean, he wasn’t exactly gonna put up a fight.” Sam puts the chart back down. “The first victim was a sixty-eight year old out in her garden. Half a mile from the ranch house.”

“So it picks off the weakest.” Dean feels a chill start in his spine.

“Pretty small radius.” Sam’s likely thinking the same thing Dean is already. “Territorial?”

“Grieving.” Castiel takes the clipboard; both Sam and Dean turn to stare at him. “Chimeras mate for life: Mr. Deems killed a male jackalope. That leaves the larger, more territorial female chimera targeting the town specifically.”

“You’re fucking with me.” Monsters, Dean can do. Angry territorial monsters, even. But fuck his life if he’s really going to take on a lovesick murder-bunny, no way in hell.

“Dean.” Sam says his name in a warning tone, the kind that usually suggests a meaningful talk is on the horizon. Or, in this case, a meaningful absence of one if Dean has anything to say about it.

“Okay, so we kill the other jackalope. Any ideas?”

“Copper through the heart. The rancher got lucky.” Finally, Castiel takes it on himself to push the unfortunate Mr. Wallace back into the morgue cell: wheels squeak as the gurney slides back in, and Castiel shuts the door with a final, echoed snick, frowning as he does so. “I apologize for that. We should find Jack and leave.”

Shit, Jack. Dean had almost forgotten about the kid: Sam left him up front with a clerk, half conversation and half babysitter. “Crap, he’s upstairs.” He breaks for the fire exit, leaving Castiel in front of the elevator, calmly waiting for the cab.

He hears the sharp ping of the elevator reaching the lobby at the same time he hits the door: still, he sees Jack first, sitting calmly in one of the waiting-room chairs, watching what appears to be Mr. Rogers . He’s playing with blocks.

“Look,” he says to Castiel, as soon as Cas is within ear shot. He holds up a green square and a yellow triangle like a fucking child.

“We can get some of our own,” Castiel promises calmly, taking the toys from Jack and handing them to Dean. “Right now we need to leave.”

Jack stands, watching Dean. “Is something wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong. We’ve found all we can here.”

“Where’s Sam?” Jack cranes his neck to check behind Dean and the lights flicker gently; Dean can’t help the way he tenses, and he knows Jack notices. Castiel takes Jack’s arm, but anxious fire still flickers in his eyes. Around them, orderlies chatter about fuse boxes, wondering over the lights.

“Sam’s downstairs,” Castiel says quietly. “He’ll meet us at the car. He’s alright.”

Jack still seems nervous, like a spooked deer. It doesn’t seem to worry Castiel though; he rests his hand on Jack’s shoulder and guides him calmly to the doors. Dean’s impressed, if startled: he wouldn’t have thought Cas could handle, well...a kid.

Dean pulls out of it and jogs after them, out to the car. As advertised, Sam’s already leaning against the rear fender, waiting: he’s got copies of the coroners’ reports in-hand and he’s tapping at his phone. “Lunch? There’s a rib place across the street, it’s got great reviews on Yelp.”  Dean makes a face. It still takes Sam a moment to realize his mistake. “Uh--sorry. Maybe pizza?”

Digging the keys out of his pocket, Dean points to the car door. “Motel, then food.” He’s gotta shower for like, a month already to get the stink of this case off of him.

***

Back at the motel, Dean comes out of the shower to find Sam, Cas and Jack already sitting around a small pile of pizza boxes. There’s no use in trying to beat them, so he might as well join them: rubbing his hair dry with a stiff bleached towel, he grabs a slice of pepperoni and climbs onto the bed next to Castiel.

“Okay so is this business or pleasure?” He peers down at Sam’s laptop.

“Not sure yet.” Sam turns the screen to give Dean a better look. He’s got the Wikipedia page on Jackalopes open: not especially impressive, blah blah hoax, blah blah official mythical animal.

“The internet hasn’t been great.”

“Because the jackalope is a hoax, I told you .” Castiel sounds annoyed, now, leaning in. “We’re hunting a chimera, its appearance is merely convenient. If we were in say, Albuquerque, it might very well take the form of La Llorona or a chupacabra.”

“A goat sucker? Those things are real too?”

Castiel pinches the bridge of his nose. It’s Sam that pipes up this time. “I think what Cas is trying to say is this thing’s appearance is...regional? Some kind of defense mechanism or something.  Like it’s only a jackalope because everyone in town thinks jackalope are real: it’s easy.”

“Yes, Sam, thank you.” Castiel nods, grateful. “A chimera’s true form is imperceivable to the human eye, like an angel’s. What you’re seeing is a glamor.” Castiel picks up the coroner’s report from where Sam left it on the other end of the bed. “Even Wallace’s injuries...in reality, they don’t look anything like mauling.” Castiel’s voice is rough when he admits, “it’s far worse than that.”

Dean winces, then takes a bit bite of his pizza, content to take Castiel’s word for it on that one. The work it would take to undo any kind of glamor wouldn’t be worth it anyway, not if they’re just trying to gank the damn thing.

“Alright.” With a mouth still full of pizza crust Jack looks up at Castiel, all earnestness and curiosity. It’s damn creepy, is what it is. “So how do we kill the monster?”

“We’re not really sure yet,” Sam interjects. “Copper to its heart should kill it, but if it’s behind a glamor we might not have a clear shot at it.” Sam turns the laptop again, pointing out something to Jack on his screen. It distracts them both, and Castiel apparently decides to take the moment to scare the shit out of Dean by sliding his fingers along the edge of his shirt, brushing his skin and forcing a shocked noise out of Dean that catches in his throat, but only barely.

“ Dude, ” Dean hisses. “What?”

He’s looking at the freaking tattoo again, whirling his fingers over the shading on one wing. “‘ _There was a star riding through clouds one night,’”_ Castiel murmurs _, “‘and I said to the star, consume me.’”_

“Uh.” Dean swallows hard, unsure how to respond. He doesn’t know if Castiel is quoting something; if he’s gotten the from a book, or the Bible; if he pulled them out of his ass, or what.

He’s still staring at Castiel, probably spooked, when Sam calls his name. “Yeah,” he coughs, belatedly. “So copper bullets. What else?”

“Sheriff says the store downtown sells ammo but it’s closed on Sundays.” Small towns; awesome. “We could still check out the ranch. There’s a knife in the trunk.”

“Great.” Dean unfolds himself from the bed, scooping up another slice of pizza on the way. He most certainly doesn’t go out of his way to walk around Jack to get his keys, and he ignores Sam and Cas watching him when he does it. They jangle when he scoops them up and he pulls the door open with more force than necessary, announcing, “I’ll be in the car” and heading for the Impala, shoving half the pizza crust in his mouth to stop him from saying anything else.

He isn’t especially surprised when he’s followed, he just wasn’t expecting Castiel to do it: he would have had even money on Sam, frankly, and he’s not sure if he should be offended or not, that his brother just threw him over for Damien.

“I told Sam to stay with Jack,” Castiel says, upon getting into the passenger’s seat. So much for that downward spiral. “He isn’t impressed with you right now either.” 

Dean isn’t especially pleased with himself, but it doesn’t stop him from taking the defense. “Right. Look, if you three assholes want to play house that’s just great, but leave me the hell out of it, okay?”

“You’re angry at Jack for something he has no control over, you’re being irrational.”

“He’s Satan’s freaking kid, Cas.”

Something angry flashes in Castiel’s eyes at that. “He’s _mine_ , Dean. I don’t care about Lucifer. And neither should you.”

Dean stares at Cas. He doesn’t have a ready response to that; his throat’s dry, and he finds himself nodding, dull. When Castiel reaches out to squeeze Dean’s shoulder, it doesn’t really sink in -- nor does the dull throb, the warmth that echoes again, through his arm and into his chest.

Before he can say anything the rear door opens: Dean startles, pulling back from Castiel in time to see Jack clamber into the backseat with all the grace of the toddler he technically is, climbing all the way in and waiting impatiently for Sam. Castiel watches him with fondness, and Dean takes in their chaotic hair and the strangely similar slope of their jaws, shaking himself out of it before he can get farther. Jack designed his vessel; he could have come out looking like Brad Pitt if he wanted. He chose Jimmy Novak.  He chose  _Castiel_ _._

*

_Ranch_ seems like an awfully ambitious title for the collection of land and dilapidated buildings they pull up on somewhere mid-day. Dean cuts the engine just beneath the shadow of an old, worn building with a big wide hole in its wooden side: he’d take a guess this is where the rancher shot the first jackalope, though of course, he’s just going on a hunch.

“What are we looking for exactly?” He stares into the hole in the side of the decrepit barn.

“Honestly, I’m not sure.” Sam’s inside the building, for whatever the value of ‘inside’ is worth: Dean can see him between the loose, dry boards, even when you discount the enormous hole torn out of them. It makes it easy to hold a conversation between them, with Sam shining his flashlight up at what’s left of the barn’s loft area. “Guess there’s not a lot of chance anything was living in here.”

“Not this close to the rancher, no.” Castiel seems less interested in the barn than the air itself, turning with the breeze like an anxious predator. It has Dean on-edge, watching indirectly; even in daylight, he’s left with the feeling he’s missing a sense.

“Cas, what are we looking for?” Dean tightens his grip on the knife he’s holding: solid copper, it’s not the sturdiest weapon in their arsenal, but it will work for now. “Sam, you got bullets?”

“Copper-tipped, yeah.” Behind Sam, Jack frowns at his own empty hands; Dean will give the kid a gun over his own dead body.

A rustling sound behind a clump of large bushes sends Jack scampering and Dean running in the direction of the noise; the source is a squirrel, but it’s been frightened by a very not squirrel-like creature about five yards back and coming down a hill. Bigger than the taxidermied animal by a good six inches and fifty pounds: Dean reaches for his gun before remembering he has no bullets that will kill it, clutches his knife and braces for an impact.

Whatever it is, it never hits. Dean still feels like he was hit by a freight train though. Dean feels Jack, screeching behind him: the pounding of his eardrums and the sheer force throwing him down against the ground and into the brush, his knife slicing his palm before rolling into the grass. Opening his eyes is a violent, blinding pain and he can only hope whatever’s happening to the jackalope is worse than whatever’s happening to him. Somewhere in the chaos, Castiel is beside him: there are arms wrapped around him, hauling him up, and a hand cupping his cottoned ears, diffusing warmth, muting pain. Dean leans into Castiel’s neck as they shuffle back towards the car, not arguing for once while Castiel heals him.

“What the hell was that,” Dean mumbles, finally, when he can hear his own voice again. Cas has sat him down on the edge of the backseat, checking him for a concussion he’s sure he doesn’t have.

“Jack,” explains Cas simply. He tugs Dean’s chin up and frowns into his face. “When the animal charged you he panicked.”

“No shit.” Dean groans. “I feel like I got hit by a backhoe.” He looks past Castiel to find Jack hiding behind Sam, nervous, and he wants to be pissed but he can’t find the energy. The kid blasted them all because he was scared...for Dean, if Cas is telling the truth. It’s not something Dean’s comfortable thinking about, so he doesn’t. “What happened to the wererabbit?”

“We don’t know. I think it ran.” Castiel straightens and looks back toward the grassy area: it’s only now Dean realizes the patch of land itself has been destroyed, torn to hell by Jack’s so-called ‘panic.’ If that hit this thing and didn’t kill it...

Dean swears, heart still thudding in his ears. “That was one damn lucky rancher.”

***

They grab dinner early, at a kebob joint marked by a glowing, neon sign set up in the same faded strip mall as the gun store. It’s barely after six when they turn into their rooms but Jack is rubbing his eyes like a big, cranky toddler, pushing his hair out of the way and yawning until Dean finds himself catching it as well.

“Perhaps I should have stayed with Jack tonight,” Castiel wonders aloud, standing at the foot of his motel bed. “Sam and I could swap our sleeping arrangements.”

“Yeah, no way.” Dean sets down the book on Southwestern folklore he’s been reading and scoots himself to the edge of his own bed, reaching to grab Castiel’s hand. He doesn’t quite make it, catching the edge of his jacket instead, but it’s good enough: he tugs, and Castiel goes easily, letting himself be pulled between Dean’s spread knees. “Sam can handle _Insidious Part 2_.”

“You’re being unfair.” Castiel frowns, hand cupping Dean’s neck. “You have no reason to hold ill-will against him.”

Which is true, of course, much to Dean’s irritation. He wants a reason to hate the kid beyond lingering resentment, beyond a memory of cold skin and the pain that still feels a hell of a lot more real than Castiel does, alive and warm in front of him.

“I’m trying, Cas.” Dean rubs his eyes. “I really am.  It’s gonna take a while.”

“You still associate him with Lucifer,” Castiel surmises. His fingers card through Dean’s hair and it feels nice, Dean thinks, the idle affection. “You don’t believe him, when he says that I’m his father.”

Dean snorts in derision, even as he lets his head fall, and Castiel begins to scratch his neck. “That ain’t how it works. Unless you gotta tell me something about you and Kelly.”

“Would I?” He isn’t confrontational, just curious, still soothing along Dean’s spine. “Would I have had to tell you?”

Rather than answer, Dean pulls away and breaks the moment. “Alright. Y’know what, it’s time for bed.”

  
*

Castiel has Dean’s phone when he comes out of the shower: he’s talking to someone, presumably Sam, so Dean doesn’t bother interrupting. He left his shirt on the far bed and he came out to grab it, but now he’s hyper-aware of Castiel watching him again, even while he’s in the middle of some kind of shop talk. It has him feeling a lot more naked than he is, but he leaves the shirt where it is, anyway.

“Yes, that’s...a possibility. I’ll pass it on to Dean when he gets out of the shower. How is Jack, is he doing alright?” Cas sounds so damn worried, like Sam’s a goddamned babysitter. Dean reaches out and snatches the phone.

“We’ll talk to you tomorrow, Sam. Don’t let the kid blow anything up.” He hangs up before Sam, or Castiel, have a chance to say anything else.

“That was rude.” Castiel watches him set the phone on the night stand. “I was having a conversation with Sam.”

“On my phone. You wanna call him back on your own time go ahead.” Now he just sounds petty, but he knows Castiel won’t do it: the angel is already shifting over to his own bed, slipping off his shoes and jacket despite the fact he likely won’t sleep tonight, either. Dean on the other hand is exhausted. He all but collapses onto his stomach, clutching a pillow beneath him.

“Dean,” Castiel says quietly; Dean almost doesn’t answer. It’d be easy to just feign sleep and not respond. But it’s not Castiel’s fault that he doesn’t do unconsciousness, and Dean turns to look at him, blinking slowly. “This case bothers me.”

“Yeah?” It’s a shitty-ass opening, but Dean isn’t lying about being bone-tired. He blinks at Castiel, hoping he looks more earnest than he sounds. “What’s up?”

“Chimeras.” Flipping onto his back, Castiel is apparently also content with stating the obvious. Awesome. Dean waits, hoping for more. “Do you know that angels mate for life as well?”

“Huh.” That, Dean actually didn’t know. Something in his chest flips. “So you got a what, an angel-soulmate running around?”

Castiel chuckles. “Unlikely. We claim--well, choose our mates. It doesn’t matter. This case just has me thinking about it.”

Dean scowls at the darkened room. He really wasn’t expecting that. “Man, you get a kid and all the sudden you’re ready to run off with an angel and a white picket fence on me.” It’s meant as a joke, but there’s a weight in his voice that hangs across both of their shoulders, and the silence that follows lasts too long.

“You know that’s not true,” says Castiel finally. “You don’t really think of Jack as mine, but you admit he’s mirrored your behavior.”

Dean comes up short. “Yeah. Well.” He punches the pillow he’s laying on, trying to get comfortable. “What does that mean, mate for life? Nobody’s heard of the Big D in heaven, or?”

 

 

 

“No, that’s not--” Castiel huffs. “It might be difficult for me to explain. I’ve heard stories of creatures--angels, chimeras, mermaids, who couldn’t live without their mate. Who abandoned their mortal form with their partner’s eventual passage.”

Even in the dark, Dean has to turn away from Castiel. He thinks about the weeks he spent without Cas, trying to hunt, to move forward, to fucking breathe. Sam watching him like a funeral parade of littered alcohol bottles and broken furniture. He’s never had the choice to do anything but keep moving.

He punches his pillow again and turns away. “Can’t relate.”

*

Dean wakes up with Castiel’s hand against his shoulder, carefully pressing, then releasing against the plane of his tattoo.

“Okay.” He grabs Castiel’s wrist, catching his arm. “C’mon, talk.”

“I apologize. It’s just.” Castiel hovers for a moment, then sits down on the edge of the mattress. “You let someone change you.”

“Huh?” Dean blinks, confused. A glance at the clock says it’s closing in on just past too damn late at night to understand whatever’s happening. “What are you talking about?”

“When I returned you from Hell I resculpted you, skin and muscle. I was the one who marked your ribs, I...allowed the return of the tattoo you had before.”

Dean stops to take Castiel’s words in. “So what, you don’t like this because you didn’t sign off on it?” Off Castiel’s blank expression, Dean feels a chill he doesn’t want to accept as arousal. “That’s pretty fucked.”

“I know.” Castiel sounds miserable. “Humans don’t claim mates, and you and I aren’t--”

“--that’s not what I said,” says Dean quietly. “The ink don’t change me. Losing mom, losing-- losing you... I didn’t come out of that the same.” His voice breaks. “I needed it to stick.”

Castiel goes quiet at that, seemingly thoughtful. “I see,” he says finally, still staring. “And so...you don’t think I’m being possessive?”

Dean closes his eyes. “I didn’t say that either. Just--” He swallows. “Didn’t tell you to stop.”

“Oh.” Castiel is quiet for a moment.

Eventually Dean nods, a decision finally made in his own mind. He reaches out and grabs Castiel’s neck, pulling him in close enough that he can bury his nose in the collar of his dress shirt.  He doesn’t try anything, just breathes in long, heavy breaths as much to calm himself as anything else. His other arm wraps around Castiel’s back, awkward. “Cas,” he mumbles. “S’okay.”

Dean has no idea what he’s doing, admittedly. But the way Castiel’s entire body trembles, shudders and then goes slack against him has to be a good start. Dean guides them both down onto his bed, not pushing anything, just lying on their sides. Castiel reaches up, petting his jaw; he’s staring, not blinking and Dean should remind him it’s weird when he does this, except he doesn’t actually want him to stop.

“Dean, I want to...” Castiel doesn’t seem to quite know how to phrase what he wants from Dean, shifting on the bed so he’s hovering over him. “I understand if you aren’t interested in anything beyond this, but I...you know how I feel. I want--”

 

 

 

“Yeah, yeah.” He’s not exactly eloquent, but he gets the idea. Even better when Cas finally stops talking long enough for Dean to kiss him, hands sliding down to get at his pants while he bites at Castiel’s bottom lip. “Clothes,” he grumbles between rough kisses, because he can’t both strip Castiel and stay pressed against him simultaneously.

Castiel pushes him onto his back and then they’re both naked, clothes gone in a handy abuse of angelic grace. Dean’s expecting it, but he still startles: in fairness, it might have something to do with Castiel snaking a hand down and cupping his junk as soon as he’s been stripped of his boxers, squeezing his balls before rubbing a curious thumbnail along the sensitive dip of his cockhead. His hips jerk off the mattress without his permission. Castiel hums into his neck, and squeezes his rising erection.

“Cas, I--fuck.” Dean gasps, arching into the contact. “I don’t have anything with me, I don’t.”

“Shhh.” Tapered fingers rub against the sensitive skin behind Dean’s sac. “I won’t hurt you.” Dean feels Castiel press at his opening and gasps, thighs falling open against his better judgement. “You’re safe. Always, here.”

Fuck . Whatever noise Dean wanted to make comes out a garbled, helpless sound instead with the first press of two, thick fingers inside of him. There’s no pain, just pressure and a warm, slick slide, Castiel obviously doing something to make things easier as he scissors and twists, stretching Dean open. It should hurt, Dean knows from enough experience to remember discomfort as part of the process, but Castiel is staring at him with an intensity bordering on uncomfortable, and Dean can’t push words through his throat enough to ask him about it.

When Castiel finally climbs up his body, lifting one of Dean’s thighs to wrap around his waist, Dean gets a hand in his hair and tugs.

“I swear to god if you tell Sam about this,” he grouses, only half-joking. Cas huffs and lets his head drop against Dean’s shoulder.

“Just us, Dean.” He shifts, cockhead pressing into Dean, and Dean’s head falls back as he pushes inside.

Cas doesn’t give him time to adjust to being penetrated. Dean catches his hipbones and tries to match his thrusts, but eventually he gives up in favor of wrapping his thighs around him and holding on tight, one hand tangled in Castiel’s sweaty hair while the angel fucks into him with short, shallow punches. Dean's cock is trapped between their stomachs, damp friction not enough to get him off, but still just enough to create a pleasant kind of haze: he’s vaguely aware of Cas nudging at his throat, hyper-aware of his cock inside of him, the slick and sweaty slide of their bodies and the rough scrape of the mattress.

It isn’t long before he realizes Castiel’s mouth seems to have a clear intention: he’s focusing on a spot just higher than Dean’s collar, laving the skin above Dean’s heartbeat with his tongue. It’s forcing chills through Dean’s body and his orgasm’s getting closer, but he remembers what Cas said again, and that damn wererabbit’s teeth. They really need to start talking this shit out.

“Fuck,” he pants, using the hand in Castiel’s hair to tug him back. “Yeah, yeah, just not--don’t want, don’t...”

He can’t seem to finish his sentence, but Castiel nods, apparently understanding. He lifts up and pulls out -- too fast, Dean winces, his stomach twists as he's flipped around onto his hands and knees, Cas grabbing his hips and shoving back into him with enough force to push the air out of Dean’s lungs. His other palm rests lazily on the base of Dean’s skull, holding him ass-up against the bed, and it’s only now that Castiel curls around him, lazily mouthing the delicate skin just behind his arm. Desperate, Dean groans, rocking back in an attempt to get more friction. His fingers twist in the bed sheets. “Cas, please.”

 

 

 

“Mmm.” He lets go of Dean’s neck, drawing his palm along his chest and his stomach, scratching blunt fingers through short pubic hair. Dean gasps and bucks. Castiel gets his hand around Dean’s erection. “You’re beautiful, Dean.”

“Don’t say that.” Another squeeze; Dean whines, pressing his forehead to the mattress.

“It’s true. Your soul is--illuminated.” Cas nuzzles his neck again. “Brighter than I’ve ever seen you.”

“You’re talking crap,” Dean eggs him on, hyper-aware of Castiel’s eye-teeth dragging along his ribcage. “C’mon. Fucking do it.”

Growling low in his throat, Castiel shifts and catches his prostate, jack-knifing into him with uneven, heated thrusts. Dean tenses, body contracting. He squeezes his eyes shut, concentrating on the twist in his gut and the feeling of Castiel’s hand on his cock, thumb brushing his foreskin. His balls draw up, whole body breaking out into a fine tremor, and then Castiel’s mouth is on him, licking and biting down his spine.

“Beautiful,” he says again. Dean is ready to argue but Cas drives the point home with a brief squeeze of his palm. He latches his mouth over Dean’s ribs on his right side and bites, a bright, sharp feeling that shouldn’t be a turn-on. It shouldn’t ... But fuck, Dean is coming, hot splashes on the comforter and over Castiel’s fingers as soon as his teeth break skin, utterly and ashamedly wrecked.

Dean breathes heavily into the pillows, content to let Castiel do what he wants. He seems far more interested in keeping his mouth on Dean than he does in chasing his own orgasm: pulling out abruptly, he flips Dean onto his back again and licks at the semen striping his stomach, tearing a ragged gasp from Dean’s already-raw throat. “Cas,” he chokes. “You don’t gotta do that. Let me--come on, lemme...”

But Castiel just slides up Dean’s body, kissing him once, twice softly before sitting up, to Dean’s absolute befuddlement, and climbing off the bed. “Not everything is tit-for-tat, Dean. I want to do this for you.” He disappears into the darkened bathroom, leaving Dean frazzled. He’s back before Dean can form a coherent thought though, a warm, wet washcloth pulling gently between Dean’s thighs.

Dean watches Castiel move the damp cloth up his torso, wiping the last of the semen off his stomach before he tosses it onto the floor. Around him the room has a dream-like haze to it, like he’s already half-asleep, and he reaches to touch his ribs now, curious. The mark Castiel left has already scabbed, skin puckering in two neat rows.

“Still don’t get it,” Dean mumbles, mostly to himself. But Castiel leans in and catches his mouth again, and Dean finds himself rolled onto his side, letting himself be manhandled.

“You don’t need to,” Castiel assures him, trailing a lazy, wet line across the bolt of his jaw. He curls around Dean’s back, a warm, familiar presence Dean is too tired to be ashamed of wanting.

“Go to sleep Dean. You’ll be tired tomorrow.”

A quick check of the bedside clock says it isn’t even one am. Castiel’s erection still presses against the swell of Dean’s ass and he can’t help but rock back again, the offer implicit. “You sure about that?”

 

 

 

Once again, Castiel ignores him, bringing up a hand to cover the reddened mark he left on Dean’s side. His lips press gently against the skin behind Dean’s ear.

“Goodnight, Dean.”

 

***

  
A cell phone wakes Dean up.

Correction: an _aggressive_ cell phone wakes Dean up. He gropes clumsily in the direction of the sound, other hand clutching at the headache that’s taken up a pounding drumline in his head.

He’s getting too old for this shit, for real.

“Hello, Sam.” Castiel sounds like he’s been up for hours, which fucking figures, because he probably never slept in the first place: freaky angel mojo, Dean wouldn’t be surprised if he was up all night staring at him or some other creepy shit. Ugh . He groans; he’s not actually mad at Cas.

He’s annoyed at daylight, currently. For lack of a way to exact vengeance on the sun itself, Dean blinks up at Castiel, talking to Sam on Dean’s cell phone.

“Alright.” His face is smooth and expressionless, making it impossible for Dean to guess what Sam is telling him. “We’ll be ready in ten minutes.” He looks at the phone as he hangs up on Sam, unfamiliar with the buttons, and then turns to Dean. “There’s another body. Well, thirteen bodies. A farmer across from the Deems Ranch found his chickens eaten.”

“Not a KFC around here, huh?” Dean rolls over, and groans. “Crap, I’m getting old.” But he doesn’t miss how sheepish Castiel looks, leaning in with his fingers already hovering against Dean’s side.

“I can heal it,” Castiel offers softly. He doesn’t explain himself, but Dean glances down and can’t help feel like Cas is suggesting he erase more than a headache. Grabbing Castiel’s wrist instead he uses the angel as leverage to sit up in bed.

“Nah.” Dean grabs Cas by the neck and pulls him in for a kiss, brief but long enough to unseat him; Castiel topples onto the bed, onto his hands and knees above Dean. “Morning, Cas.”

“Good morning, Dean.” There’s a smile pulling across Castiel’s face now. “I told Sam we’d join them outside.”

No rest for the wicked. Dean sighs, pressing his forehead to Castiel’s. “Guess I don’t have time to shower,” he asks, more a statement than a genuine hope. Castiel hums, and with a brush of his palm along Dean’s spine, Dean is clean and dressed in a new shirt and pair of jeans from his duffel bag. It even feels like he brushed his teeth. “That’s handy,” he admits, voice admiring.

“Still not preferable to a shower, I’m afraid.” Castiel stands, climbing off the bed and offering his hand to help Dean do the same. “But Sam and Jack may become concerned. And our bullets will be ready.”

Right. “Looks like we’re hunting wabbits,” Dean says in his best Elmer Fudd voice, grabbing his jacket off the table. His side twinges again, keeping him hyper-aware of the bite; he shrugs on his windbreaker and zips it up over the mark, carefully avoiding the brush of fabric on skin.

When he’s finished, he finds Castiel watching him, head tipped and eyes narrowed. “I still don’t know that reference,” he says finally.

 

 

 

*  
Jack is giving him the stink-eye.

Dean isn’t making this up, he swears. The kid’s been giving him funny looks since they met up at the car, like Dean stepped in something and Jack doesn’t know how to tell him. And yeah, Dean checked that too, right before they got to the ranch.

He’s left glaring back at the kid as he loads up his sawed-off, weirdly self-conscious over a freaking Satanic preemie.

Fortunately, whatever the hell Jack’s problem is, Sam doesn’t seem to notice, or care. “It got the chickens two miles up north, but there isn’t much tree cover. Do you think that matters?”

Castiel follows Sam’s gaze up the hillside. “I think it depends on whether it intends on attacking. Right now it’s likely gone to ground.” He frowns down at the sketched-out map they’re using,

both of them crouching in the dirt by the car. At least this thing won’t see them coming, Dean thinks.

Right now they’re parked up on the Deems Ranch, as close to the barn as Dean could get. It’s a ways out from the action but close enough to keep an eye on anything that might jump them: the barn is built on a molehill, just enough slope to sight with, and Dean worries the trigger of his rifle and wanders a little ways from the car, turning the corner on the barn. Around the way, he sees a place where the dirt has been disturbed. Dean circles around it and keeps going, letting the nose of his gun lead him around the far corner and away from Cas and Sam, and the car. It isn’t any more exciting over here, but Dean can try.

He’s a good ways down past the barn when he hears footsteps trailing his: just enough of an echo to be unnatural, and he takes a few carefully-even steps before abruptly stopping, side-stepping backwards, and shoving the butt of his gun back into whatever it is that’s following him. Hard.

Behind him, Jack grunts in pain, and falls to the ground.

“What the hell?” Dean drops the gun and drops to his knees, brushing off Jack’s shoulders, helping him sit up. He’s coughing, clearly winded and watching Dean warily.

“Why did you do that?” His voice waivers. “I wasn’t hurting you.”

“Thought you were a damn wererabbit. You okay?”

“You hurt me,” Jack tells him, wide-eyed; Dean stands, getting Jack to his feet and swiping dirt and dead plant matter off his jeans. “You didn’t mean to?”

“Look, kid: we got problems to work out, you and me. Fine. But you’re important to Cas. And Sam likes you. So nobody’s hurting you on my watch. Come here, let me...” He lifts the kid’s shirt, but there’s no bruising. “Freaking angels. Okay. You’re good.” He claps Jack’s back, scanning the ground for his shotgun. “Let’s get you back to the car.”

“Or I could help you,” Jack offers, instead, while Dean’s picking up his gun. “Castiel’s with Sam, someone should protect you. I know he--cares about you. You’re his mate, aren’t you?” Jack’s eyes go wide, which is fair, because Dean’s pretty sure he looks damn startled too. “Was I not supposed to say that?” He looks back toward the car like he needs to call for backup.

For a moment, Dean is ready to tell him, hell no you weren’t, because him and Cas aren’t any of the kid’s freaking business. But Jack can’t help his weird...angel crap; it isn’t fair to make his _Dean-and-Cas_ crap the kid’s problem, too. Dean shakes his head. “No, it’s--it’s fine. Don’t worry about it. Let’s go.” He grabs the arm of Jack’s coat and turns to drag him back towards the car.

 

 

 

Neither of them see the jackalope coming.

Jack is thrown a good couple of yards away from the barn: far enough that Dean hopes to shit Sam or Cas see him, because his shotgun’s gone and he’s down to the handgun he’s got shoved in his waistband, hell if he can remember what it’s loaded with. His flashlight rolled somewhere off to the side, a beam of light cutting through thick brush and darkness but not illuminating a hell of a lot, and Dean twists onto his back, ignoring the sharp pain in his shoulder when he does. He can taste blood in his mouth. Shit, the thing’s out of eyesight. He cocks his gun. “Sam?”

Somewhere to his left, grass rustles.

“Cas?” Dean sits, scooting himself closer to where he last saw his sawed-off. “Jack?”

In the dark there’s another rustle, a burst of movement and noise. Something hits him again, this time tearing his shirt and drawing blood. Cursing, he pulls his gun in the direction of whatever it was and squeezes the trigger once, twice: the quick burst of fire illuminates something massive and twisted in shape, all wrong for the thing he saw earlier. He remembers what Castiel said about chimeras and pulls back.

“Dean!” He hears Sam calling for him, the sound of footsteps rounding the barn. “Fuck,” he thinks very clearly, turning to face Sam before something hits him again, this time squarely in the back of the head.

Everything goes dark abruptly. Dean doesn’t feel himself hit the ground.

  
*

  
Wherever Dean is, it smells. The air is the first thing he’s aware of: humid, and rancid.

The second thought, following almost immediately on the first one’s heels, is that everything fucking hurts and he’s dying. Moving creates a shock of pain that ripples up and down his spine, and he immediately regrets trying to sit up. But he can feel his arms and legs, as much as he might dislike it: it means nothing’s permanently broken, he thinks; nothing Cas can’t put back together, as long as he lasts long enough to get them here.

Wherever the hell here is, anyway.

Stretching his neck as far as he can, Dean squints in what seems to be a beam of sunlight. He’s in a tunnel, a hutch of some kind: pressed up against a rock face, but carved out by hand...or foot, or claw. It isn’t natural, at any rate. The copper tang of blood hangs in the air around him, though whether it’s his, or something else’s, he can’t be sure. Somewhere, he hears the slow drip of water.

Shit. Dean grimaces and tries again to roll onto his side. The same hot, rolling pain greets him, but he gets a response from his body this time, landing face-down on his stomach with a soft grunt. Fuck. “Damn it,” he hisses. “Fuck. Cas, I dunno if you can hear me in here. Wherever the fuck here is.” He’s really regretting those symbols on his ribs, right about now.

Somewhere behind him, Dean hears breathing.

“I’m gonna go ahead and guess whatever that is ain’t a chipmunk.” He turns his head as far as he dares, and something dark shoots across his peripheral vision. “Nope, not a chipmunk.” He’s going to die in a hole in Wyoming. Awesome. Even for a hunter, that’s a pretty crappy death.

 

 

 

Pulling his sleeves up over his hands, Dean manages to get his jacket off over his head. It hurts like hell, but it gives him something to work with, twisting the fabric into a makeshift rope. His entire body singes with pain and he breathes through the nausea that threatens to overtake him as the smell gets stronger, coming closer. He doesn’t have the energy to sit up, but he curls in on himself, scooting nearer to a rock wall. As his eyes adjust, he sees something moving, as big as he is sitting down. Its limbs seem to stretch: two of them; no, four. Hands?

Feet? He’s still too dizzy to tell. Rallying, he sits up -- and promptly throws up into his own lap.

 At least he stays conscious, back pressed against the wall for balance. Whatever the thing is, it screeches, popping his ears.

“Gonna have to do better than that.” Dean grimaces, pressing his cheek against the cool rock. Jack’s blown out his eardrums so many times in the last six months he’s not even sure this is going to even register. One less thing to worry about whenever they find his body. He wonders if they’ll even find a body. What the hell do wererabbits eat? This one doesn’t seem in any hurry to get around to dinner, anyway.  The thing sniffs in his direction and hisses again, swiping at the air with a big, wet paw before backing away.  He squints, trying to get a better look at it, but all he sees is a mess of limbs and the red burn of eyes: something simultaneously solid and smokey, like he’s already hallucinating, seeing ghosts.

The creature dives at him, open mouth revealing rows of long, curved fangs. Dean can’t do much more than lift his jacket: it’s shredded immediately, but it gives him enough time to throw himself to the side: teeth rip into his shoulder in a firework of pain, but miss his neck by inches.  He rolls, shoulder taking most of the damage and the light behind his eyes blinks out the world around him for a single, endless moment. He comes to with the thing screeching in his ear, a primal scream like it’s the one in death throes. Dean curls into himself as best he can, makes himself as small as possible; he’ll bleed out before anyone can realize he’s missing, if the thing gets another shot at him.

_BANG._

The first loud, clear blast makes him think he’s been hit: by the chimera, by a bullet; he closes his eyes, wondering if this is what death finally feels like.

_BANG ._

The world swims into focus and the jackalope shrieks, gunpowder and footsteps filling the chamber. He hears Castiel, yelling his name, and his last thought before he gives in and lets the darkness overtake him is that he hopes Death sounds a little bit less pissed off.

*

The car is moving.

Dean lifts his head before realizing he’s supposed to be in pain, only to find he’s been stretched out across the backseat, head in Castiel’s lap. Before he can think to be embarrassed about it he sees Jack in the passenger’s seat, and then he’s ready to take offense -- but Castiel catches him with a hand in his hair, tugging him back down.

“Hello, Dean.”

“Hey, Dean--” Sam looks up from the driver’s seat, through the rear-view mirror. “How you feeling?”

“Like I got beat up by a wererabbit.” He reaches out to find Castiel’s hand and squeezes. “What happened?”

 

 

 

“You were attacked by the chimera,” Castiel confirms. “It dragged you away; Jack was able to find a blood trail.”

Dean doesn’t ask if it was the jackalope’s, or his own. Either way he’s pretty sure he saw the losing end of that fight. “So why am I not rabbit food right now? I’m damn happy about it, don’t get me wrong, but...” He looks down at his torn, bloody clothes, and winces.

“Good timing, I suppose.” Castiel brushes his hand across Dean’s cheek and Dean feels a suffusion of warmth, a soft, white light that has him closing his eyes instinctively. “Chimeras are unaffected by grace, but they’re averse to actually consuming it.”

“The--huh?” Dean doesn’t understand what Castiel just said. Cas just blinks down at him though, hand moving up to brush back his hair. He’s clean and dry, now, no trace of the dirt and blood that had soaked his clothes and body before. Combined with the gentle rocking of the road, Dean finds himself tired: whether naturally, or thanks to another blast of mojo, he isn’t sure he really cares. “So what happened to the jackrabbit,” he asks instead, before he forgets.

“Jackalope,” Sam reminds him. “Cas had the rifle. Two shots to the heart.”

“You left it there?” Dean tries to sit up. Cas pulls him back down.

In the rear-view, Sam’s expression is tense. “Dean, you were bleeding out. It wasn’t really on the list of priorities.” His eyes shift, presumably back to the road behind them. “It’s a big forest out there. Something will take it.”

“Do you think that’s true?” Jack turns, addressing Castiel. He seems genuinely curious and it makes Dean nervous. “The chimera didn’t want to touch Dean after--”

“Jack, it will be fine.” Castiel cuts him off with a little too much intention. “I promise.”

Dean doesn’t miss Sam watching him while Cas and Jack bicker, but then they hit their exit, and Sam has to focus back on the road. He’s lost his moment, and if Dean has his way there won’t be another.

He closes his eyes and leans back into Castiel’s thigh.

***

When Dean wakes up again, it’s morning: morning in his motel room, and he’s stripped down to his boxers, Castiel’s arm slung over his waist. A dull ache in his back is the only physical reminder he has of his encounter with Barr Nunn’s resident murder-bunny, but he still sits up abruptly, patting himself down. No bruising, no injuries. Dean’s fingers brush the bite on his side and he hesitates, tracing the mark carefully.

“I don’t think I explained, fully.”

Castiel sits up beside him. When he reaches out to touch Dean, hand cupping his shoulder the same way he always does, Dean feels a warmth again, under his skin and against Cas’s fingers.

“Don’t.” Dean touches his wrist. “It doesn’t...” He hesitates, because it sure as hell  _does_ matter; he’d be lying to them both to say otherwise. His voice shakes when he says instead, “I don’t gotta know.” A tremor runs down his spine. He’s uncomfortable with the offer, with not knowing this, between them. He doesn’t like giving someone else control.

Castiel seems to get that, though. He stares at Dean, silent for a long moment, and nods. “Alright.” Leaning in, he kisses Dean softly, pulling away before he can get distracted into anything more. “Sam sent a text a while ago. He and Jack are finishing breakfast, I told him we’d meet them at the car.”

 

 

 

Ugh . Dean flops back down onto the bed. “What time is it?”

“Just before nine. I thought you’d be anxious to leave, after last night.” Castiel stares down at him with earnest eyes and mussed hair. He isn’t wrong. But shit. Last night Dean was pretty sure he was going to die. That kinda thing screws with a guy. Dean reaches up and loops his arms around Castiel’s neck, tugging him down.

“Yeah, yeah,” he agrees, pulling him into another kiss. “Definitely. So breakfast 'til ten, right?”

“Check-out at eleven, yes.” Obliging, Castiel crawls on top of him, straddling Dean’s hips. He’s still glancing over at their cell phones, clearly concerned about whatever he told Sam, but Dean has an idea on how to cut his attention short: he grabs one of Castiel’s hands and puts it on top of the mark he left and Castiel stills so quickly Dean thinks he’s hurt him. The angel swallows, eyes darting from Dean’s face, to his own hand, to - again, for some damn reason, the tattoo on Dean’s shoulder. Dean rolls his eyes and bucks his hips, breaking Castiel’s attention.

“Okay, so we got a while.” Letting go of Castiel’s hand, Dean slides his own toward his boxers. “You didn’t let me do anything for you last time - you wanna try me returning the favor?”

“I told you Dean, you don’t owe me anything.”

Fondly, Dean huffs, fingertips brushing at Castiel’s waistband. “You’re missing the point. I want to do this. Besides.” He gives the elastic a pull. “I wanna see what you look like when you come.” Castiel swallows, silent, which is fine by Dean. He rolls them over, tugging Castiel’s underwear down as he does. “Bet I can get you off just like this.”

“I’m sure,” Castiel’s voice is already thin, hips rocking into Dean’s palm as he wraps it around Castiel’s cock. “But I--ah, Dean, I want to, I want...”

“Tonight, yeah.” Castiel’s already hard and leaking pre-come, legs shifting restlessly against the mattress. Dean brings his other hand up to roll Castiel’s balls and can’t help but notice how tense he is, body drawn tight: he’s not going to last long and it’s probably for the best. As much as Dean wants to drag this out, Sam’s going to wonder where they are, eventually. He leans down, blowing cool air over the angel’s cockhead, just to watch Castiel gasp. “C’mon Cas.” Ducking, he presses his tongue into the slit, dragging slowly and because he can.

Castiel arches and comes over Dean’s hand, and chin, dribbling onto his own stomach. Dean wipes it off onto his hand and then the comforter and uses the sheets to clean Castiel off, too; he pulls his underwear the rest of the way off and gets him to roll onto the pillows, batting his hand away from the alarm clock.

“It’s not even nine-ten. I’m gonna shower, relax.” Castiel looks at him suspiciously, but his eyes drift closed. Dean climbs off the bed, and shuffles for his jeans.

*

The trunk of the Impala opens with an amiable creak of oiled hinges. Dean throws his duffel inside, filled with his own clothes and what few things of Castiel’s he’s taken to bringing. There’s still another hour ‘til check-out but Dean figures he might as well get packed now. Cas was still conked out when he left, and Dean tries not to be That Guy when it comes to sex, but he’s allowed to be smug just once about fucking an angel unconscious.

 

 

 

Slamming the trunk, Dean turns to find Jack staring at him with silver sparklers crackling in his glare. Gripping the back of the car, Dean coughs and deliberately does not panic.

“Uh.” He glances around, but Sam’s not in range. “Hey Jack.”

“Where is Castiel? He was with you.” Jack’s eyes narrow; his nostrils flare. He steps closer to Dean and swear to god if the kid is smelling him Dean is leaving him in freaking Wyoming. “Did you hurt him?”

Dean coughs. The question throws him off and he tries not to laugh at Jack. Fuck, this isn’t funny. “Somebody's gonna have to explain the birds and the bees to you, man.” Jack looks more confused than before, but he doesn’t look any less antsy; Dean isn’t sure if this is an improvement. “He's on his way, just packing some things up.  Hey, where’d Sam get off to?”

Jack is still glaring at Dean. “I don’t understand. You and my father...”

“Yeah, join the club.” No, wrong answer still. This is hell. “It’s complicated. Me and Cas--me and your dad.” The word tastes badly in Dean’s mouth, so he spits it out quickly. “Let’s just go find Sam first, okay?”

Sam, either thankfully or to Dean’s irritation, chooses that moment to come jogging up to the car, his own bag slung over his shoulder. “Hey, you want to go get Cas?”

Jack, somehow, glares harder.

Dean knocks on the door to the motel room, perfunctory, before entering. Castiel is already dressed, folding his trench coat over his arm rather than wearing it. He looks up when Dean comes in, curious.

“Dennis the Menace is freaking out, out there.” He jerks his thumb. Castiel hums pleasantly.

“That’s a step up from the antichrist, isn’t it?” His shoulder brushes Dean’s, as he passes. “He did save you from a wererabbit.” Dean follows Castiel outside, shutting the door behind them.

“Kid’s gonna smite my damn head off cuz he saw mommy and daddy naked wrestling.” Dean grumbles, turning the corner toward the car. Castiel hesitates, smirking. “What?” Dean gestures. “We heading out?”

“He needs time to adjust, Dean. You haven’t told Sam yet.” It’s pointed, and Dean’s first instinct is to insist that he’s done nothing wrong, that explaining this to Sam is nothing like telling the damn kid how things are going to be, but before he can open his mouth he realizes none of it matters because Castiel is right: Dean hasn’t even thought about how to talk about this with Sam.

In complete honesty, he’s been grateful for Jack as a distraction lately, a selfish black hole Sam’s happy to throw time into, because as long as he’s playing Good Will Hunting to little Damien, he isn’t paying attention to what Dean and Cas are doing behind his back. Or next door.

Sam notices them first: he digs the car keys out of his pocket and throws them over an easy arc, passing them in Dean’s direction. Dean catches them and meets Castiel’s eye, nodding to the passenger’s side before he heads for the driver’s seat. “Eight hours to Lebanon,” he asks Sam, even though he knows the answer in his bones.

“Eight and a half,” Sam confirms. “We can pick up dinner.”

Castiel slides into the car beside Dean, reaching across the bench to squeeze his arm. “I don’t think Jack has tried the meatloaf from Piggly Wiggly’s,” he offers. In the backseat, Sam’s eyes widen -- a reminder of their mom, Castiel didn’t think -- but Dean reaches to touch Castiel’s shoulders, closing his eyes for a moment before he nods.

 

 

 

“Guess that’s dinner.” He turns the key in the ignition. “Sam? You ready?”

Dean isn’t. But he’s close.

 


End file.
